Michael Robotham: Shatter

‘Small coffin.’

‘Shoebox.’

She drums her fingers on the steering wheel.

‘It wasn’t your fault, you know, back there on the bridge.’

I don’t answer.

‘Skinny Minnie made the decision to jump before you even stepped up to the plate. She didn’t want to be saved.’

My eyes wrench to the left, out the window. Night is closing in. No views remain.

She drops me at the university, holding out her hand to shake mine. Short nails. A firm grip. We pull apart. Flat against my palm is a business card.

‘My home number is on the back,’ she says. ‘Let’s get drunk some time.’

My mobile has been turned off. There are three messages from Julianne on my voicemail. Her train from London arrived more than an hour ago. Her voice changes from angry to concerned to urgent with each new message.

I haven’t seen her in three days. She’s been in Rome on business with her boss, an American venture capitalist. My brilliant wife speaks four languages and has become a corporate high-flyer.

She is sitting on her suitcase working on her PDA when I pull into the pick-up zone.

‘You need a ride?’ I ask.

‘I’m waiting for my husband,’ she replies. ‘He should have been here an hour ago but didn’t show up. Didn’t call. He won’t turn up now without a very good excuse.’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s an apology, not an excuse.’

‘I should have called.’

‘That’s stating the obvious. It’s still not an excuse.’

‘How about if I offer you an explanation, a grovelling apology and a foot rub.’

‘You only give me foot rubs when you want sex.’

I want to protest but she’s right. Getting out of the car, I feel the cold pavement through my socks.

‘Where are your shoes?’

I look down at my feet.

‘They had vomit on them.’

‘Someone vomited on you.’

‘I did.’

‘You’re drenched. What happened?’ Our hands are touching on the handle of the suitcase.

‘A suicide. I couldn’t talk her down. She jumped.’

She puts her arms around me. There is a smell about her. Something different. Wood smoke. Rich food. Wine.

‘I’m so sorry, Joe. It must have been awful. Do you know anything about her?’

I shake my head.

‘How did you get involved?’

‘They came to the university. I wish I could have saved her.’

‘You can’t blame yourself. You didn’t know her. You didn’t know her problems.’

Dodging the oily puddles, I put her case in the boot and open the driver’s door for her. She slips behind the steering wheel, adjusting her skirt. She does it automatically nowadays- takes over the driving. In profile I see an eyelash brush against her cheek as she blinks and the pink shell of her ear poking through her hair. God, she’s beautiful.

I still remember the first time I laid eyes on her in a pub near Trafalgar Square. She was doing first year languages at the University of London and I was a post-grad student. She’d witnessed one of my best moments, a soapbox sermon on the evils of apartheid outside the South African Embassy. I’m sure that somewhere in the bowels of MI5 there’s a transcript of that speech along with a photograph of yours truly sporting a handlebar moustache and high-waisted jeans.

After the rally we went to a pub and Julianne came up and introduced herself. I offered to buy her a drink and tried not to stare at her. She had a dark freckle on her bottom lip that was utterly mesmerising… it still is. My eyes are drawn to it when I speak to her and my lips are drawn to it when we kiss.

I didn’t have to woo Julianne with candlelit dinners or flowers. She chose me. And by next morning, I swear this is true, we were plotting our life together over Marmite soldiers and cups of tea. I love her for so many reasons but mostly because she’s on my side and by my side and because her heart is big enough for both of us. She makes me better, braver, stronger; she allows me to dream; she holds me together.

We head along the A37 towards Frome, between the hedgerows, fences and walls.

‘How did the lecture go?’

‘Bruno Kaufman thought it was inspired.’

‘You’re going to be a great teacher.’

‘According to Bruno, my Parkinson’s is a bonus. It creates an assumption of sincerity.’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ she says, crossly. ‘You’re the most sincere man I’ve ever known.’

‘It was a joke.’

‘Well, it’s not funny. This Bruno sounds cynical and sarcastic. I don’t know whether I like him.’

‘He can be very charming. You’ll see.’

She’s not convinced. I change the subject. ‘So how was your trip?’

‘Busy.’

She begins telling me about how her company is negotiating to buy a string of radio stations in Italy on behalf of a company in Germany. There must be something interesting about this but I turn off well before she reaches that point. After nine months, I still can’t remember the names of her colleagues or her boss. Worse still, I can never imagine remembering them.

The car pulls into a parking space outside a house in Wellow. I decide to put on my shoes.

‘I phoned Mrs Logan and told her we’d be late,’ Julianne says.

‘How did she sound?’

‘Same as ever.’

‘I’m sure she thinks we’re the worst parents in the world. You’re an uber-career woman and I’m a… I’m a…’

‘A man?’

‘That’ll do it.’

We both laugh.

Mrs Logan looks after Emma, our three year old, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Now that I’m lecturing at the university we need a full-time nanny. I’m interviewing on Monday.

Emma charges to the door and wraps her arms around my leg. Mrs Logan is in the hallway. Her XL T-shirt hangs straight from her breasts covering a bump of uncertainty. I can never work out if she’s pregnant or fat so I keep my mouth shut.

‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ I explain. ‘An emergency. It won’t happen again.’

She takes Emma’s coat from a hook and thrusts her bag into my arms. The silent treatment is pretty normal. I lift Emma onto my hip. She’s clutching a crayon drawing- a scribble of lines and blotches.

‘For you, Daddy.’

‘It’s wonderful. What is it?’

‘A drawing.’

‘I know that. What is it a drawing of?’

‘It’s just a drawing.’

She has her mother’s ability to state the obvious and make me look foolish.

Julianne takes her from me, giving her a cuddle. ‘You’ve grown in four days.’

‘I’m three.’

‘Indeed you are.’

‘Charlie?’

‘She’s at home, sweetheart.’

Charlie is our eldest. She’s twelve going on twenty-one.

Julianne straps Emma in her car seat and I put on her favourite CD, which features four middle-aged Australian men in Teletubbie-coloured tops. She babbles from the back seat, pulling off her socks because she likes to go native.

I guess we’ve all gone a little native since we moved out of London. It was Julianne’s idea. She said it would be less stressful for me, which is true. Cheaper houses. Good schools. More room for the girls. The usual arguments.

Our friends thought we were crazy. Somerset? You can’t be serious. It’s full of Aga louts and the green wellie brigade who go to Pony Club meetings and drive four-by-fours towing heated horse floats.

Charlie didn’t want to leave her friends but came round when she saw the possibility of owning a horse, which is still under negotiation. So now we’re living here, in the wilds of the West Country, being treated like blow-ins by locals who will never entirely trust us until four generations of O’Loughlins are buried in the village churchyard.

The cottage is lit up like a uni dormitory. Charlie is yet to equate her desire to save the planet with turning off the lights when she leaves a room. Now she’s standing at the front gate with her hands on hips.